"Of course I shall never be allowed to see the Morgue," she said; "they won't let me see anything real. Even this little teeny tiny bit of a drive, I daresay it's not comme il faut! I do hope Madame won't be furious. She couldn't expect me to wait forever. Perhaps, too, she's ill, and no one to look after her. Oh, I'm sure I'm right to go." The doubt, however, grew as the carriage jolted through narrower streets, and when it drew up at an open carriage-door, Betty jumped out, paid the coachman, and went in quite prepared to be scolded. She went through the doorway and stood looking for the list of names such as are set at the foot of the stairs leading to flats in London. There was no such list. From a lighted doorway on the right came a babel of shrill, high-pitched voices. Betty looked in at the door and the voices ceased. "Pardon, Madame," said Betty. "I seek Madame Gautier." Everyone in the crowded stuffy lamplit little room drew a deep breath. "Mademoiselle is without doubt one of Madame's young ladies?" Perhaps it was the sudden hushing of the raised voices, perhaps it was something in the flushed faces that all turned towards her. To her dying day Betty will never know why she did not say "Yes." What she did say was: "I am a friend of Madame's. Is she at home?" "No, Mademoiselle,--she is not at home; she will never be at home more, the poor lady. She is dead, Mademoiselle--an accident, one of those cursed automobiles ran over her at her very door, Mademoiselle, before our eyes." Betty felt sick. "Thank you," she said, "it is very sudden." "Will Mademoiselle leave her name?" the concierge asked curiously. "The brother of Madame, he is in the commerce at Nantes. A telegramme has been sent--he arrives to-morrow morning. He will give Mademoiselle details." Again Betty said what she had not intended to say. She said: "Miss Brown." Perhaps the brother in the commerce vaguely suggested the addition, "of Manchester." Then she turned away, and got out of the light into the friendly dusk of the street. "Tiens, but it is droll," said the concierge's friend, "a young girl, and all alone like that." "Oh, it is nothing," said the concierge; "the English are mad--all! Their young girls run the streets at all hours, and the Devil guards them." Betty stood in the street. She could not go back to that circle of harpy faces, all eagerly tearing to pieces the details of poor old Madame Gautier's death. She must be alone--think. She would have to write home. Her father would come to fetch her. Her aunt was beyond the reach of appeal. Her artist-life would be over. Everything would be over. She would be dragged back to the Parishing and the Mothers' meetings and the black-cotton-covered books and the Sunday School. And she would never have lived in Paris at all! She walked down the street. "I can't think--I _must_ think! I'll have this night to myself to think in, anyway. I'll go to some cheap hotel. I have enough for that."